


Through the Forbidden Door

by jellybeanforest



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Forbidden Zone, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Cap-Ironman Bingo, Dimensional Portals, Established Relationship, Harem, M/M, Protective Steve Rogers, Race Against Time, tony stark to the rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 23:44:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20938763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybeanforest/pseuds/jellybeanforest
Summary: When Tony Stark loses his protégé Peter Parker through a dimensional rip, he calls Steve Rogers to monitor the door on their end while he retrieves the kid, but Steve is not about to let his husband go in alone.For the Cap-IronMan Bingo 2019 Round 2 – Forbidden Zone.





	Through the Forbidden Door

**Author's Note:**

> This is loosely based on the premise for the 1982 movie “Forbidden Zone.”

“Tony… Why is there an ominously-glowing doorway in your sub-basement where metal sheeting used to be?” Steve asks tentatively, having barreled into the lab moments before already suited up in his Captain America outfit.

The other man looks wild-eyed and harried as he flits around the rigging system he had set up opposite what must be an experiment gone horribly wrong. “We’re way past the why, Cap. Long story short: Peter and I were messing around with the multiverse. We may have gotten a little too curious when we should have been cautious, and now he’s stuck in what I have taken to calling the ‘Forbidden Zone’ between dimensions so I’m going to fish him out,” he speeds through his explanation while feeding a cord through a harness attached to his Iron Man armor. “Try to keep up.”

Steve stands dumbfounded, still processing the implications of his husband’s massive fuck up. “…You broke reality, and now Peter is God-knows where? Tony, we talked about this.”

Tony is now typing away at his computer, not even looking in Steve’s direction. “There is no way we had a conversation about this exact scenario.”

“I specifically recall telling you I read there’s a number of tech billionaires who believe reality is a simulation and are trying to break us out of something called the matrix. I said, ‘Please tell me you aren’t one of those loons trying to break reality because that’s where we all live.’”

“Debatable–” he is familiar with the simulation hypothesis after all, and the likelihood they are in a base reality is admittedly small.

Steve carries on as if Tony had never interrupted. “I asked you not to do this exact thing, and then what did you go out and do?”

“First off, I didn’t ‘break reality,’” the man has the nerve to use air quotes before resuming his work. “I only damaged it a little. A tiny localized tear. Barely noticeable.”

“Except Peter somehow fell through that tear,” Steve points out.

Tony is silent for a beat, his fingers stilling, before he launches on a new track of conversation. “Look, we don’t have time to quibble about which one of us was trying to open new frontiers of scientific inquiry and which one of us is a giant stick in the mud–”

“Who was also right–”

“Because right now, the kid needs me,” he maximizes the holographic screen in front of him. “And I need you to monitor the situation on this side to make sure nothing else comes through. Be prepared to pull us out. Capisce?”

Steve boxes him in against his desk, bodily preventing his escape. “No, I should be the one to go.”

“This isn’t a negotiation.”

“You’re the genius who understands all this,” he waves his hands around to encompass the computers as well as the mystery portal. “I wouldn’t know how to close the door if anything were to happen. You need to be on this side in case the operation goes sideways.”

Tony pushes against Steve’s chest, trying to move him out of the way. “I’m not losing you, too. It’s my fault – mea culpa – so I’m fixing it, and–”

Steve cuts him off with a deep, desperate kiss, his tongue slipping in when Tony gives a soft meep of surprise. Then, he betrays his loving husband by expertly handcuffing Tony’s arm to his station before throwing the keys across the room. Steve must be taking sexy distraction tips from his old sparring buddy, Natasha.

Tony tugs on the cuffs. “What–”

“I love you, sweetheart,” Steve says, and it sounds like a goodbye. He bounds around the desk to reach the rigging where he unclasps the tether from the Iron Man armor and clips it to his own suit’s harness, grabbing onto a length of cord to unspool it as he goes.

Tony’s pulling becomes more urgent. “Steve, no! This is serious. We only have…” he angles his captured wrist to check his watch, “Forty-three minutes to retrieve Peter before the convergence separates, and you’re both trapped. I don’t even know how much time that is on the other side with the unpredictable warping of spacetime. Could be longer, but it could just as easily be much shorter. It’s basic relativity!”

“That’s good to know,” Steve says as he rushes towards the doorway, setting his watch anyway before leaping through.

“Steve!” Tony holds out his free arm, recalling his gauntlet to form around his hand, which he uses to blast off the handcuffs. “J., call Natasha!” he orders. She’s good with computers, and this Steve situation is at least 12% her fault.

When she answers, he rushes through the explanation while his Iron Man armor quickly assembles around his body. “Nat, I fucked up. I fucked up big time. I opened a portal into another dimension, and Peter got sucked into the in-between, and now Cap has gone after him.” The line connecting Steve to the rigging suddenly becomes taut, shakes, then just as quickly goes limp. Tony activates the winch to pull it back in, his mind screaming that he might already be too late. He swears he feels his heart stutter as the end emerges from the shimmering blue expanse severed and cleanly cut. “I’m going in after them both.”

“Stark, that may not be the smart play. We don’t know–” she says, but Tony cuts her off.

“I know, I know, we’re sending in the spider to catch the fly and so on and so forth, but I need you to come down here and babysit the portal. Forty-one minutes until spacetime snaps back, and they’re trapped.”

Her voice sounds concerned but firm. “Stark–”

“Natasha, do as I say,” his visor comes down. “And hurry.”

Then he speeds off headlong through the portal and into the unknown.

* * *

Tony emerges on the other side suspended at least eight feet in the air, so he quickly activates his repulsors to clumsily right himself – or tries to anyway, but they don’t fire. So, he tumbles head over feet to land on solid ground as gracefully as possible, which is to say he flips and rolls in the underbrush, stirring up dead leaves and branches in his wake and coming to a stop on his back, his left side snug against a tree eight feet down and five feet in front of where he had first entered.

He is immediately beset upon by half a dozen knights in battered and dented full plate armor who flank his right, each pointing a sharp bayonet in his direction, the muzzle of guns glittering in the sunlight. It looks wrong, downright anachronistic, to have Medieval knights brandishing what appeared to be WWI guns, but Tony isn’t in Kansas anymore.

“I believe this one to be dead,” one of them comments, prodding at his metal shell with a bayonet. “By contrast, the one delivered three hours past was definitely a lively fellow.”

_Steve,_ Tony thinks. Also, three hours here when it couldn’t have been more than two minutes on his side? Apparently, the time dilation factor is in their favor. That gives him just north of three days for the portal to stay open. Three days to find Steve and Peter and get the hell out of Dodge.

“Molech must be testing our watch with these lifeless beetles flipped so on their backs,” another adds, adding some sharp pokes of his own. “He means to taunt us.”

Tony can’t move, not while trapped in his incapacitated armor. There’s a manual release hatch near his left wrist, if he can scramble his arm up enough within the armor to thumb over the casing and press it.

“Be silent. That talk will not be tolerated,” yet a third admonishes them. He drops back, holding his rifle at the ready, having assessed Tony as a non-threat. “The king has taken a liking to the recent sky beings, has likened them to angels.”

_Beings. As in plural._

“Fallen angels,” Knight #2 mumbles. “Did you not see what the last one did to our entire east battalion before they subdued him? Miracle if half of them ever walk again.”

“Be that as it may, you will not speak ill of his… acquisitions.”

_At least they’re both alive,_ Tony thinks with no small measure of relief.

“What of this one? Should we call it in?” Yet another inquires, nudging Tony’s hip with his foot.

“Might as well,” Knight #3 replies. “The king is quite fond of these oddities, and the armor is rather lovely. He may want it for the royal collection.”

It takes all six of them to lift Tony and load him into a waiting cart drawn by two oxen. Tony lies there patiently, his eyes closed, trying to memorize the path back, every turn and straight-away, the babbling of water and smell of lavender crushed under wheels. If they have any chance of returning to their world, Tony will need to lead Steve and Peter back to this exact location then somehow catapult each of them eight feet in the air and through the portal into the safety of his lab.

Without a functional Iron Man armor.

_One problem at a time,_ he tells himself.

* * *

When they come to a stop, Tony opens his eyes. Through the slits in his visor, he can see they have entered some sort of courtyard before he is lifted by another team of guards and carried into what must be the castle through a side door to set him atop a stone slab. He lies still, staring at the vaulted cobblestone ceilings as he listens to what has to be the curator of the ‘royal collection’ dictate a list of cleaning and polishing supplies required to make Iron Man presentable.

Tony continues to remain motionless as a small army of restoration experts work over his metal surfaces with the softest bristles and cloths to remove dirt then buff him to a fabulous shine. The curator, a large older man with flabby jowls and eyes set too wide apart so as to resemble a frog, frets over the armor, micromanaging his staff until even Tony is rolling his eyes from within the helmet.

He wonders if this is what the Greeks felt lying in wait in the Trojan Horse.

When they’re done after what feels like ages and the sky outside the windows has darkened, Tony is further wheeled down a series of corridors lit by strings of electric lights, then up a long staircase or three to be placed in a room full of other curiosities where the king awaits to welcome his newest bauble.

Tony doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t the man standing before him. He’s short, shorter than Peter even, with dark hair poufed up unnaturally to make himself appear taller, but really, it only made his forehead look comically long. (Tony would know, having tried that trick once upon a time when he was young and stupid only to be laughed at by Rhodey.) The king has a large, thin high-bridge nose with a bump in the middle, reminiscent of a beak, and deep-set eyes that stare critically at Tony before his face breaks into a crooked smile.

“It is exquisite,” he declares, stroking the planes of Iron Man’s stomach with the soft hands of a man who has never experienced a day of labor. “Another gift from the benevolent gods. Put him up against the wall over yonder. I want him to be the first thing I see when I enter, the centerpiece of my collection, a testament to my divine right to rule.”

“As you wish, Your Highness,” the curator bows low, then signals his underlings to move Tony into position, careful not to jostle him in front of their royal audience. As he is raised and draped over a T-bar stand, Tony’s heart leaps to his throat when he sees Steve’s shield mounted on the wall adjacent to him.

Unaware of their audience, the king asks, “And my other gifts? My angels? How are they settling in to their new accommodations?”

From his upright position, Tony can see the man hesitate and consider his words before delivering his answer. “They are physically healthy, Your Majesty, but as can be expected, there is an adjustment period to their new station. The big one in particular has been hard to tame, but he’ll come around…”

Tony feels apprehensive. Phrases such as _new station_ and _hard to tame_ did not bode well.

“Threatening the little one appears to make him more docile and cooperative.”

Tony’s blood runs cold.

The king’s expression twists into one of dangerous displeasure. “I don’t like that word. Threatening. It’s so coercive, so… vulgar.”

“My apologies, sire,” the curator rushes to amend. “If I may revise my speech to reflect the truth of the matter thusly: Telling him that the little one will be the first to experience your… private patronage seems to correct any unwanted behaviors. He wants to be first,” he pauses a beat, “Is practically begging for it.”

Tony can feel a restlessness overtake him in the wake of white hot rage. He wants nothing more than to spring the release hatch and beat this asshole to a bloody pulp with his gauntlet, but no… he has to wait. _Rescue first; murder second_ is his mantra.

The king looks appeased by the ‘corrected’ report. “They all do. If he pleases me, he may get a special treat.”

Emboldened by the king’s favor, the curator further adds, “He also desires exclusivity. He is willing to do anything to not share you with the other.”

“His enthusiasm is very flattering, but I wouldn’t want to deprive the rest of my harem of my company.”

“Of course not, Your Majesty. The others would be heartbroken. Even the little one wept at the prospect of never experiencing your magnanimity when his larger compatriot made his offer.”

_Rescue first. Murder–_

“I’m sure my angel will understand when I tell him,” the king says haughtily, chest puffed with confidence. “After tonight.”

_Murder second. _

“As you wish, Your Highness. I shall have the attendants prepare him.”

“Not too much,” he orders. “You know how much I like breaking in the new ones.”

_Murder must come second, _Tony reminds himself yet again. _Priorities._

Twenty minutes after they’ve left, when Tony deems it safe, he shimmies his arm up within the armor to flip open the access panel and press the manual release button. The armor curls away like a moulted shell, and he takes the time to reform it back into shape once he’s out. No point in alerting the castle to his presence.

Once done, he tip-toes soundlessly to the door, cracking it open a touch to scope out his surroundings, finding the corridor empty. He needs a disguise. And directions.

He finds the former in the form of discarded servants garb in a small barren bedroom likely meant for royal attendants. It’s a generous cut and fits over his existing clothing. He tightens the tunic around his waist using a belt in the manner he’s seen other servants dress then heads for the lower levels from whence he came, towards the beating heart of the castle to blend in and absorb information.

He ends up back in the workshop, winding outward from there, looking for the main servants hub, when he’s interrupted.

“You!” A guard stops him with a hand on his upper arm. “What are you doing here? You’re needed in the kitchens.”

“Funny you should say that. I’m just returning. To my station… in the kitchens,” he stammers. “And I must have gotten turned around somehow. I’m new. These things happen.”

_Smooth._

The guard stands silent for a minute, giving him a slow once-over. Within his voluminous sleeves, Tony clenches his hands into fists, ready to pounce on the other man if he recognizes him as an uninvited stranger to the castle, much less this reality. “The kitchens are that way,” he says, directing him with a flattened palm pointed in the opposite direction.

Tony relaxes. “Yes of course.”

“And one more thing,” the guard says, not relinquishing his grip. Tony mentally prepares himself for a brawl, already clocking the weak points he may be able to exploit in the other man’s armor. “What are you doing later tonight?”

* * *

Tony has barely entered the kitchens when a harried woman unloads a large tray into his hands laden with tiny toast points, various cheeses, and a chacuterie spread.

“We’re short-staffed. The king’s new plaything damaged my last attendant in the baths,” she complains, barely looking at Tony as she rushes him back into the inner corridor. “I can’t have that demon tearing through my experienced staff even more than he already has. You look new and expendable. Bring this to the royal harem to tide them over until supper, which will be an hour hence. The wine should have already been delivered.”

She snaps her fingers at yet another guard, who falls in beside Tony. “And you, guard him, guide him, make sure he doesn’t fuck the pretty things he finds within,” she orders before warning Tony. “The king castrated the last one who tried.”

And with that, they’re off to the royal harem with Tony following a few steps behind his guide.

The harem is located on one of the upper levels, not too far from the royal collection and probably close to the king’s chambers as well. He seems the type to keep his possessions close, Tony thinks, his skin crawling at the thought of Steve and Peter being considered little more than things to be owned and used for that sick man’s pleasure.

“Right this way,” the guard says, stepping through the threshold and holding the wooden door open for Tony.

“Thanks,” Tony replies, immediately turning the platter on its side, quickly spilling its contents before smacking the surprised guard on the chin with the hard edge. He crumples to the ground.

There’s screaming and a rush of bodies clamoring to get away from their assumed attacker as the harem guards – three of them – storm Tony. Using the platter as cover, he blocks the attack of one, slamming it hard into his face. He drops it as another slips in the spilled cheese allowing Tony time to deliver a hard right-left hook combination across his face, but the third is on him from behind, squeezing his neck in a chokehold as Tony tries to break free, his fingers clawing at the arm at his throat with the other hand reaching up to attempt a foothold on the other man’s orbital bone. But in seconds, his final assailant goes limp as well, hitting the floor atop the others. Tony turns, finding himself face-to-face with a young woman dressed in a silky white shift, panting hard in the aftermath, two broken chair legs gripped tightly in her hands and its remains sprawled over the floor beside the prone guards.

“…Thank you?” he wheezes out but still wary of the newcomer, residual adrenaline coursing through his blood.

She throws down her makeshift weapons but still advances on him to tug down on the collar of his tunic and bring his face close. “Three months! – Three! – and you lay waste to my cover in two minutes!” She looks over her shoulder at a similarly-dressed youth Tony recognizes as Peter in the corner. “You owe me, kid. He best be worth it.”

Peter looks shocked, as if he can’t believe she actually helped Tony. “Oh, he is,” he replies after a moment. “That right there is _the_ Tony Stark.”

She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t unhand him. “You say that like it means anything.”

“That hurt, lady,” Tony lightly knocks his chest, “Right here.”

“How did you…” Peter begins, tugging at what Tony can now see is a collar fit snug against his neck.

The woman lets go of Tony to rummage through the downed guards’ person, divesting them of their weapons and throwing a shock stick to Tony while keeping a rifle and knife for herself. “I deactivated mine a month after I got here. You’d be surprised what one can do with a mirror, a razor, bobby pins, and a somewhat-working knowledge of obedience collars. I just needed the muscle.”

“Who are you?” Tony asks, testing out the controls on the stick, making it spark.

“Otesha, soldier in service of the rightful ruler of Jaspera, and you are from another realm beyond our own, unreachable by conventional means,” she replies, grabbing a leather sack of ammunition to tie around her waist. “Your boy does _not_ know how to keep a secret.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Hey!” Peter exclaims as Otesha draws close with a bobby pin to spring open the control panel of his collar. By now the others – approximately a dozen in total – have started to cautiously approach the two, a couple of the braver ones begging to be released as well while many stay silent, wary of the interlopers.

“I don’t have time for all of you right now,” she waves them off, “But I will come back. I give you my word.”

“The word of a traitor and a liar,” one of the self-important ones, a pretty redhead with a fine gold chain laid over her obedience collar, retorts.

Otesha doesn’t even pause, breaking Peter’s collar open. “Not all of us desire to be that man’s whore.”

“Better a kept woman than a starving peasant.”

“Most of us would prefer a choice to be one or the other,” Otesha says, advancing on the other woman and stopping inches from her face, hands on her hips. “Besides Jouran, when was the last time the king asked after you?”

Jouran crosses her arms, her back straight and chin tipped up in challenge. “I am his favorite.”

“Were. Even before the arrival of his supposed angels, hadn’t he been spending more time in the company of Ybassa?” She says, her tone low but vicious. Jouran’s nostrils flare, but she remains silent. “Your star fades along with your influence here. How long before he casts you aside like he has so many others before? Even your predecessor is no longer among our ranks. Why, with little effort, young Peter there can become his new favorite, with the potential to captivate his attention longer than any of us could ever hope to accomplish. The king thinks him a herald of the gods, after all.” Having made her point, she steps back. “You cooperate, and I promise to put in a good word come the next regime change, and _she_ won’t even require you to stay young and pretty and novel to maintain your position of favor.”

Jouran considers the offer then gives a curt nod. “But if you get caught, you’re on your own. I will not hesitate to report that you threatened us all.” She points towards the guard’s immobile form. “Lock the door on your way out. Allow us the privilege of plausible deniability, and none shall raise the alarm,” she looks pointedly at the small collection of women and men around her, who all nod in agreement.

His hands gesticulating expressively, Tony interrupts. “Okay, this is great and all, your society debating the merits of sex slavery and coming down on the side of ‘no thank you’ – very progressive, I’m sure – but let’s get back to what’s important. Where’s Cap? The big guy. Blond. Gorgeous.”

“They took him, Mr. Stark,” Peter replies, not quite looking at his mentor, his tone heavy with guilt. “He’s with the king.”

“So that’s where we go. Come on.” Tony rolls the guard over to reach his keys, undoing his belt to retrieve the ring.

But Otesha objects. “No. My mission is the Queen.”

“The who?” _They don’t have time for this._

“If you want to rescue your Queen, you want Cap on it,” Peter says, without missing a beat, clearly aware of the evolving political situation. “I don’t know how many guards are left between us and the Queen, but Cap took out a lot of Nazis to rescue over a hundred of our men deep in enemy territory. By himself. With only a shield, no guns. I mean the guy punched Hitler like a thousand times.” Predictably, the name doesn’t register with Otesha, but Peter pays no heed, soldiering on, “Trust me. If you uncollar Cap, he will be an invaluable asset.”

Tony can see her calculating their odds, weighing the benefits of adding such a formidable force to their party, before coming to the smart decision. “Alright. Let’s go.”

After locking the harem within, Otesha leads them towards the king’s chambers, down long hallways and up yet another stairway, ducking around corners and down side corridors when Peter senses incoming guards or attendants, of which there are far fewer than Tony had expected. Probably Steve’s doing, he thinks with a grim smile.

“Mr. Stark, I’m so sorry,” Peter whispers as they follow Otesha. “Cap was just trying to protect me, and–”

“Don’t apologize, Peter. It’s not your fault,” Tony mutters back.

“But if I wasn’t here–”

“You wouldn’t even be here if I hadn’t opened that portal. There’s only one person responsible for all this, and it’s not you.” After all, it was Tony who tore through the delicate dimensional membranes, Tony who lost Peter, and finally, Tony who called in Steve for help.

Peter nods. “Yeah, the king.”

Tony’s self-deprecating thoughts stutter to a stop. Peter actually had a really good point. “…You got it, kid. That’s exactly who I was thinking of.”

Peter looks at him then, his head cocked to one side, but he never gets a chance to voice whatever he’s thinking when Otesha suddenly stops outside a grand door.

“We’re here.”

She moves to open the door slowly, but losing patience, Tony reaches out, and pushes inward, his head peaking in before he can properly prepare himself for the horrible scene he assumes awaits him within. His heart is thumping so hard, he can feel it in his throat.

It’s dimly-lit inside, the only light coming from candlelight flickering along multiple surfaces to give it an almost-romantic atmosphere. The walls are beset with rich fabrics, velvets and tapestries of long-ago battles and scenes, for insulation, and in the center is a large four-poster bed with Steve naked atop it, each limb secured by restraints to the corners of the bed.

Steve’s tremor is almost imperceptible, his body taut and fists clenched as he awaits the approach of his assumed attacker.

Tony swears then rushes forward.

But having heard his voice, his husband opens his eyes. “…Tony?”

“Yeah honey, we’re going to get you out of here.” He pulls at the locked restraints, too weak to break through, relieved when Otesha and Peter catch up, and she works on deactivating Steve’s collar while Peter manually breaks through the restraints using his super-strength. Peter has only managed to remove ones on the leg by the time Otesha finishes with the collar, and Steve snaps the arm restraints off easily with a hard tug. Tony pulls off his oversized servant’s tunic to hand to Steve. It’s tight across his chest, but it will have to do.

“Alright, I have fulfilled my end of the bargain, so now we must free the Queen before the king is made aware of our escape,” Otesha whispers urgently. “It can’t be long now. The king likes to be fashionably late to increase the erotic anticipation or whatever he imagines is happening, but he’ll come eventually. We can’t dally much longer.” She fists the fabric of her own silky tunic as Peter pats her soothingly on the back. She snaps at him, shrugging off the contact.

“Okay, a deal’s a deal, but first, might I suggest a detour,” Tony replies as they head for the door.

“Another one?” Otesha stops in her tracks, sounding incredulous. “You cannot be serious.”

* * *

They retrieve Cap’s shield next, but by the time they are ready to leave the royal collection, they hear the shouts and footfalls of many armed guards who have spread out to find them, calling out when they have cleared an area with no sign of the king’s angels nor the whore who helped them. The king must have raised the alarm, finding Steve missing from his chambers.

Otesha is visibly annoyed. However, all is forgiven when they run across the first crop of armed guards, and Steve sends his shield flying, taking out two in one throw before capturing it on the rebound to crush yet another.

From then on, it’s a series of scuffles leading into a larger battle as the rest of the King’s Guard converges on their location. The enclosed space proves perfect for Steve’s fighting style, allowing him to bounce his shield across multiple surfaces, taking out the majority of their opponents while Tony uses his shock stick at close range, Otesha runs out of ammunition before resorting to her knife, and Peter, who had never been much of a fan of weapons in general, uses his brute strength to fight hand-to-hand as they make their way down, towards the dungeons.

Tony turns just in time to see Steve take out a familiar-looking guard with a right hook.

“That one was my date for later,” he can’t help but playfully complain before ducking behind Steve as the latter crouches down to shield them from gunfire, the bullets ricocheting back on the enemy, allowing them a few seconds before the next onslaught.

Steve turns to face him. “Your _what_?”

“Don’t worry about it, Cap. He wasn’t going to get anywhere. I don’t put out on the first date.”

Steve raises a skeptical eyebrow at that.

“…Anymore,” Tony adds.

He frowns.

“Or ever again. I only have eyes for you, honey, and I take our marriage vows very _very_ seriously.”

Peter chimes in. “Mr. Stark? Cap? I get that you’re having a moment or maybe the beginning of an argument, but would it be possible for you two to maybe table this discussion for when we’re not being pursued by the Knights of the Round Table, but like way rapey-er?”

“You should always make time for the people that are important to you, Peter,” Tony says, readying his shock stick for another round. “And never go to bed angry.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for when we’re _safe at home_.”

Otesha pushes past them, grabbing Peter’s arm to pull him along. “This way.”

* * *

By the time they’ve made it to the dungeons, Tony estimates that they must have decimated the majority of enemy combatant forces, Steve taking out most of them with an efficiency borne of annoyance edged with a touch of jealousy.

“Did you flirt with that one as well?” he asks when Tony had expressed some concern about his punishing pace and the strength he was putting into his punches.

“No, it was just the one, and he came onto me. I can’t help it if I’m devastatingly handsome,” Tony replies, and that seems to mollify his husband a bit.

Peter rolls his eyes.

“Can we focus on the task at hand for five minutes?” Otesha orders as they push through the last door and descend the stairs into the dungeons.

They locate the Queen’s prison outfitted with a heavy door made of metal alloy and secured with a series of locks. An opening fitted with a sliding apparatus to pass trays of food and drink is the only window into the cell.

Otesha slides it open, peering into the room. “Your Majesty?” she asks tentatively.

“Who is that? You are not the regular attendant,” a voice, much too young, asks.

“It is I, Otesha, daughter of Hasht, late member of the Queen’s Guard,” she replies. “We have come to free Queen Winnglad from unjust confinement and restore her to her rightful seat upon the throne.”

An older voice filters through, “And you have found her, child.”

“It is she,” Otesha confirms, motioning Steve to free them. He brings the edge of his shield sharply on the locks, breaking them one at a time, before she opens the door. The hinges creak with the effort, having been so long disused.

The cell is more comfortable than expected, with a bed outfitted in clean linens, and a couple cots for the Queen’s personal handmaidens with a separate toilette room with a bath. The goal of such a place had clearly been indefinite confinement rather than torture.

Queen Winnglad stands before them, her handmaidens supporting her on either side. She’s an older woman, short but with a straight back and graying hair combed neatly and swept up in braids atop her head. Her deep-set eyes are authoritative and sharp as they take in her rescuers, half of which are dressed in skimpy garb undeniably marking them consorts.

“We are at your disposal, Your Majesty,” Otesha bows, keeping her eyes respectfully lowered.

“The crown recognizes and thanks you for your loyal service,” she drops a hand gently on Otesha’s shoulder. “Now child, keep your chin up and eyes steady, for you have all done a great deed for your country on this day.”

In short order, once Queen Winnglad arrives topside, any further resistance from the King’s Guard ceases upon her command, the majority of the castle being under the impression that she had died, leaving the crown to her nephew. They turn on their newly-deposed king, who begs ‘Aunt Winnie’ for mercy, but upon learning many favorite members of her former court had been executed or otherwise silenced, she is unmoved, allowing Otesha the honor of carrying out his sentence.

* * *

Steve, Tony, and Peter decline Queen Winnglad’s offer of titles and lands confiscated from her nephew’s accomplices as well as her invitation to stay longer as honored guests of the crown during the subsequent feasts and celebrations. Instead, she grants their request to have their possessions returned and a convoy lead by Otesha taken to the point of convergence where Tony tests its presence by throwing a pebble at the spot he suspects he had fallen out of the day before. It disappears mid-air, proving his conjecture.

“Remember Pete, as soon as you get to the other side, you must lower the tether through, then immediately activate the winch when you feel it go taut. It should happen immediately as a minute in the lab equals approximately ninety here. Got it?”

“I won’t let you down, Mr. Stark.”

“Good, because we’re counting on you.”

Peter hugs Otesha, “Thank you for everything.”

“You’re welcome, kid.”

Then, Steve offers Peter a leg-up, launching him through the portal back into the lab located in the Avenger sub-basement. It’s another thirty minutes for the tether to appear, which Tony hooks onto Iron Man’s harness as both Steve and him grab on either side.

“This might take a while,” Tony tells him.

“Yeah, time dilation. I heard you, sweetheart,” Steve replies.

Tony turns to Otesha still watching them even as the tether begins to retract at a snail’s pace. “I would say ‘goodbye, and it’s nice knowing you,’ but… this is going to take at least another fifteen minutes, so it’ll get awkward real quick.”

“I was fortunate to have met you, Tony Stark. Steve Rogers,” she says instead, granting them a small inclination of the head.

Tony groans. “See? Now, we’re going to be hanging around here inching towards home while you stand there in silence for another 13.2 minutes,” he clearly cannot shut up and enjoy the silence. Such a thing is liable to give him hives.

“What my… temporarily-socially-challenged husband is trying to say is thank you for looking after Peter before I could get her and for helping the both of them find me,” Steve interrupts him. “You risked your own operation to do so, so you have my thanks.”

“It was a gamble, sure, but it paid off in spades.”

There’s a few minutes of silence once again before Tony rambles off, “You know, this will feel much faster once we enter the portal. It’s like a black hole – have you discovered those yet?” At her puzzled expression, he figures they haven’t. “Well, you may see us for several minutes after we have already passed through, almost like a truncated event horizon – or like an after-image long after the source has moved on – but rest assured, we will be safely back in our dimension by the time you see that.”

They’re almost up at the convergence and the light shimmers there. Tony can just about reach out and touch–

The sensation of going through the portal is different than last time, perhaps due to the lack of urgency. There’s a slight stretching sensation as he feels himself be pulled into the in-between and then just as quickly, he’s sucked back into his lab. Momentarily disoriented, he tilts his head back to look upside down at a relieved Peter and Natasha then to the side and over Iron Man armor to find Steve also safe.

“Kill it, Peter,” he directs him. Though the convergence will likely end on its own twenty minutes hence, it wouldn’t do to allow the other side hours of open communication.

Peter nods, clicking on the holographic projection to destabilize the door. It fractures, the middle futzing out in horizontal fissures like the bad tracking of an old VCR tape before the image finally fritzes out completely, leaving behind the unblemished metal sheeting that had been there before.

Tony relaxes, rolling away from the Iron Man armor to lie flat onto the floor. “Good job, team. We should probably break for lunch. I was thinking Thai. Have you guys ever tried larb? I have, and it’s fantastic,” he chatters on, as if the past day was simply a bad dream that could be wiped away with spicy chopped chicken and possibly a mango lassi. “No seriously, who’s hungry?” he turns his head to face his husband once again. “Steve?”

Natasha grasps Peter’s shoulder. “Peter, I’m sure you’d like a shower and maybe a nap?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty wiped out,” he agrees.

“Let me show you where the guest rooms are.”

“No, that’s okay. I know where they are.”

“Let me show you,” she insists, her eyes flitting to the two still prone on the ground, though Steve has since sat up, his disapproving gaze trained on Tony. “I will come with you. I insist.”

Peter catches on, his face quickly sliding from realization to agreement. “On second thought… yeah, sure. Let’s go upstairs. Together. Show me the guest room and all its amenities. Because I haven’t been here in ages.”

“You stayed over last weekend,” Tony interjects.

“…I have a poor sense of direction?”

That’s clearly bullshit, but Tony is not about to call him out on it. Again. Not now that Steve is standing and looking down at him with his patented ‘we need to talk’ look. Tony hates that look.

Natasha and Peter exit, leaving the two of them alone.

_Traitors._

“Tony–”

“I’m sorry, Steve,” Tony interrupts before Steve can get into it. “I shouldn’t have roped Peter into my interdimensional experiments.” He groans as he sits up then stands as well, arching his spine and rubbing the aches out of his lower back. Interdimensional travel is for the young, and Tony can’t spring back like he used to. “I put him in danger. And you. I could have lost both of you.”

“Did Aunt May even know what he was doing over here?” Steve crosses his arms, looking at Tony as if he already knows the answer. “You know she’s his legal guardian. If anything happened to him…”

“I know, Steve. I know. She would have killed me, and I would have deserved it. You don’t have to remind me.”

“I want you to establish safety protocols and actually follow them. No more of this ‘Let’s poke it, and see what happens’ stuff,” Steve presses.

“Yes, I understand, and I completely agree.”

Steve breathes out slowly, his face falling into a more-neutral expression. He had clearly expected a fight on this, and when it didn’t materialize, he apparently didn’t know what to do with his excess anger. “I just want you to be more careful about these things. You were going to hop through that portal, no thought of the consequences, of what would happen if you didn’t come back.”

“I guess that makes two of us,” Tony quips.

Steve gives him another look of disapproval, but his tone is even. “You scared me yesterday, or thirty minutes ago, or however long it’s been. We needed to get Peter, but I couldn’t sit back and let you go by yourself.” Huh, those anger management courses and lessons on talk therapy are really paying off.

“I know. I get it, and next time… Well, there won’t be a next time. Because there will be more safeguards,” Tony promises.

“Good.”

“I’m glad we had this talk.”

“Likewise.”

Tony walks back to his desk, picking up the pieces he had thrown around in his rush to save Peter and Steve, when he spots the other half of Steve’s handcuffs, still dangling from the reinforced workstation support pipe.

“You know, there is one thing that’s been bothering me,” he says, idly fingering the melted links, warped from the gauntlet’s blast.

“What is it?”

“Steve… where did you even get handcuffs earlier, and why did you have them on you?”

“Oh… well, I read the situation wrong,” Steve replies, blushing. “When you said you had an emergency at the lab and needed me – and I quote – ‘five minutes ago,’ I thought you might have meant something else.”

Tony voice takes on a suggestive edge. “Something that would require handcuffs?” _This should be interesting._

Steve waffles, nervously running his fingers through his hair to scratch at the back of his neck. “I thought Captain America would need to make a citizen’s arrest, and the naughty mechanic would try to negotiate his way out of it using his masculine wiles?” he looks away in embarrassment. “It sounds stupid in hindsight, okay?”

“Stupid is not the word I’d use.”

“Hm.”

Tony steps in close. “So, Captain Rogers. I’ve been a very bad man.”

“Yeah?” One corner of his lip quirks up in a half-smile, catching on to his husband’s game.

“I sprung my lover and his friend out of the clink recently, and we’re on the lamb. I would do just about anything to ensure our freedom.” Tony runs his hand across Steve’s chest, teasing a nipple to hardness. “Anything at all.”

Steve reaches behind Tony to cup his ass, pulling it forward so Tony can feel Steve’s erection against his own pelvis. “Well, maybe we can work out an arrangement.”


End file.
